


taking the bus to chinatown

by hito



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas, M/M, mittens!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hito/pseuds/hito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles' home economics teacher forces him to knit mittens. Nobody wants Stiles' mittens, but then Stiles offers them to Derek, and Stiles is pretty sure Derek does these things purely to drive him crazy. What else could it be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	taking the bus to chinatown

**Author's Note:**

> When I posted this [at the kinkmeme](http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/6131.html?thread=4372979#t4372979), I had completely forgotten that anyone on this show had ever been ice-skating. The story has been edited to reflect that, but it probably still isn't going to be exactly canonical, sorry.

"This project will count towards your final grade," Mr Dixon says dreadfully, but that's his default tone after spending the last three and a half months attempting to educate a class of unresponsive eighteen-year-olds on the finer nuances of household management, so Stiles doesn't pay it much heed. 

"Hey, did your mom like your apple pie?" Stiles whispers to Scott. Mr Dixon is drawing on the chalkboard, and he's too worn down by life and his job to care about students talking unless they do it louder than he does. 

Scott had gotten an A on that project, but his mom had taught him to bake a pie when he was a kid, and neither of Stiles' parents were capable of doing much more than grilling a burger, so Stiles doesn't think that should count. 

"Yeah," Scott whispers back. "Your dad?" 

"He didn't even eat it all," Stiles says indignantly. "I gave him a special temporary exclusion from food rules and everything, and I found half of it in the trash the next day." 

"C minus is a pass, buddy," Scott says supportively. "That's all anybody's aiming for here." 

"I can bake!" Stiles says heatedly. "I could totally be a baker!" 

"We have moved on from baking," Mr Dixon says, raising his voice so he doesn't have to deal with Stiles. "Much as we have blessedly moved on from budgeting and darning socks." 

Stiles wriggles his toe in his lumpy sock. "C plus," he reminds Scott. 

"Great job," Scott tells him, entirely sincerely, and Stiles glowers at him and his stupid streak of As. 

"Passing this class is required to receive your diploma from this school," Mr Dixon tells them for the hundredth time, voice somehow both threatening and dulled with despair. 

"I don't know why you always partner with Isaac," Stiles says sulkily. "I deserved those grades just as much." 

"Hey!" Isaac protests from the other side of Scott. 

"I was here first!" 

"Partner projects don't count towards our final grade," Scott says patiently. 

"Still," Stiles says. "I feel like this is totally breaking the Bro Code." 

"I offered to teach you to bake," Scott says. This is true, and would have been very helpful but for the unfortunate fact that Stiles had no interest in learning to bake, because he had nobody to bake for, so he'd turned down Scott's offer, assuming that he'd be a naturally mediocre baker because he was kind of a great cook. 

This had not turned out to be the case. Stiles is pretty sure he'd gotten a pity pass after his third attempt at pie had miraculously failed to explode all over the oven. 

"I can cook," Stiles says trenchantly. 

"You can cook!" Scott says, apparently thrilled to have remembered something Stiles doesn't suck at. 

"We are not cooking," Mr Dixon says, putting his chalk down and moving to stand by Stiles' desk. There are weird loops on the board that don't make sense from any angle Stiles tilts his head at. "We are knitting." 

" _Oh_ ," Stiles says. "Is that supposed to be a stitch?" 

" _Everybody_ is going to knit a wearable item of winter clothing before end of term or so help me God, I will call all your mothers in to discuss with them how on earth we have all failed so badly, and also, how _you_ are failing my class and are not going to graduate. This is the worse failure, which does bring me some small comfort." 

"My mom is dead," Stiles offers. 

"I will spend the last class before Christmas sitting at my desk and _crying_ at you," Mr Dixon says wrathfully. "Bring me _knitwear_." 

Lydia raises her hand. "Can we get this off Etsy? It's homemade!" 

The bell rings before Mr Dixon can give them a preview of coming attractions. 

* 

So that's how the pack ends up over at Boyd's grandma's house, watching her finish up a beautiful baby cardigan ensconced in an armchair in the corner with CNN on mute and NPR on her fifties style digital radio. 

"Do you have a new grandbaby?" Lydia asks. 

"No, child," she says, removing her needles from her wool. She called this casting off, but Stiles calls it magic. "I have an extremely profitable store on Etsy." 

"Etsy," Lydia says longingly, as Millicent holds up the completed garment. 

"Wow," Stiles says faintly. "Yeah, that isn't going to happen." 

"It will if you know what's good for you." 

"I clearly don't," Stiles tells her. 

"I expect to be paid in yarn and hugs," Millicent says firmly, and Stiles likes the hugs so much that he keeps going back. 

* 

And that's how Stiles ends up with an extraordinarily decent pair of mittens, if he says so himself. 

"Wow," Mr Dixon says, surprised. "B. Total B!" 

"Oh," Stiles says, a little disappointed. 

"I would give you an A, but I'm kind of sick of handing out pity grades." 

"Oh!" Stiles repeats, pleased. "A for improvement?" 

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, kid," Mr Dixon says, and moves on to Lydia's scarf. 

*

"Hey, Dad," Stiles says, plating his stir-fry. "Do you need mittens?" 

"No," his dad says absently, eyes on the food. 

"I made mittens in home ec," Stiles tells him. "You want my mittens, right?" 

His dad blinks warily. "You got me leather gloves for Christmas last year. Do you want me to stop wearing your gift?" 

Stiles doesn't. "No," he says reluctantly. "Damn it." 

He ignores how relieved his dad looks. 

* 

"Scott gave me the cap and scarf he made for class," Isaac tells him, refusing to meet his eyes. "And he says he's going to make me fingerless gloves to go with them now that he has time." 

"Damn it, Scott," Stiles mutters, watching fascinated as Isaac's cheeks slowly turn pink. 

"Also socks and maybe a throw," Isaac rushes out, staring down dreamily at the cover of his closed textbook. 

Stiles blinks, baffled. "Wow," he says, backing slowly away. "Each to his own, I guess." 

"Yeah," Isaac says with a small, pleased smile. 

"Why don't _I_ get fingerless gloves?" he asks indignantly, dropping into his seat. 

"You couldn't pull them off," Jackson tells him. 

" _Hey_ ," Stiles says, because it may be true, but he still _wants_ them. "Hey, do you want--" 

"No," Jackson says. 

Boyd leans forward from the other side of Jackson. "No," he says peremptorily. 

Stiles spends the whole class pretending he isn't sulking. 

* 

"I used purl!" Stiles says proudly, waving the mitten at Allison. "Look how pretty!" 

"They are pretty," Allison says, and Stiles narrows his eyes, because he doesn't believe her. "Have you seen the size of my hands? Those are too big for me to wear." 

"Boyfriend clothes are still in!" 

"Boyfriend mittens are ugly." 

"My mittens are not ugly!" Stiles says, clutching them protectively. 

"Okay," Allison concedes, and Stiles brightens until she continues, "The thing is, I have mittens already. I made my scarf in purple yarn specially to match them!" 

"Oh," Stiles says. "Girls need options, though, right? You totally need more than one pair of mittens." 

"Girls totally need options," Allison agrees, and Stiles brightens again until she says, "That's why my awesome mittens pull back and button so they transform into _fingerless gloves_." 

" _Oh_ ," Stiles says. "Did Scott make them before you broke up?" 

"He can't have them back," Allison says crazily, and when Stiles backs away, it's _quickly_. 

*

When he gets to econ, Erica is displaying the mittens she made on her table, so Stiles doesn't offer her his, even though _she_ only got a B _minus_. 

He turns to Lydia instead. She's filing her nails while she's waiting for class to start. 

"Hey--" he begins. 

"No," she says. 

"Damn it," he says, taking his seat beside her. "That's everybody." 

"You could hit up Scott for a pity wear," she suggests. "He is your best friend. Pitying you is a requirement." 

"My mittens are too awesome for a pity wear!" Stiles protests, and slides his chair as far away from her as he can. 

*

"Okay," Derek says, and tugs the mittens out of his suddenly frozen hands. 

"Uh--" Stiles says, watching as Derek pulls them on. "Are you sure?" 

"Yes. Thank you." Derek gives him a small smile before he strides out onto the grass to offer his pups instruction or correction or a beating or whatever. 

"Are you _sure_?" Stiles yells after him, but Derek just grins over his shoulder and jogs away, still wearing Stiles' mittens. 

*

"It wasn't even _cold_ ," Stiles tells Scott again. 

"Mmm-hmm," Scott says, eyes on his clicking needles. "Do you think Isaac would like it if I did a patch with a werewolf for his throw?" 

"And even if it _was_ cold, Derek doesn't _get_ cold." 

"You made him mittens, though," Scott says. "And you already knew that. Why are you complaining about it now? You don't think he's going to appreciate them enough?" 

"I didn't make him mittens! I made mittens for class and nobody else would take them!" 

"Oh." Scott sounds concerned. "Does he know that?" 

"I don't even know what you're talking about," Stiles says, helplessly confused. "I don't even know why I talk to you at all." 

"We have two classes left before break," Scott says thoughtfully. "Do you think Mr Dixon would teach me needlepoint?" 

"I don't even _know_ you," Stiles says, and if he doesn't inch his chair away, it's only because he feels like this is one of those things the best friend handbook would require him to be supportive about. 

There are a lot of those, and most of them are more embarrassing and less useful, so he doesn't mind _too_ much. 

*

Derek picks Isaac up after school sometimes, when he isn't trying to punish him or make him work for acceptance or earn his status or whatever; Stiles doesn't care, because he never thinks about these things. 

So Stiles isn't surprised to see Derek's car idling out front when they make it to the steps, but he is surprised when Isaac hesitates, looking to Scott instead of going to Derek, colour burning in his pale face. 

"Are you all right?" Stiles asks, kind of worried. 

"I'm fine," Isaac says. 

Scott stares at Derek as he climbs out of the car, and that's a little surprising too, because Derek will drive by to pick his pack up, but he doesn't get out to meet them on the steps of the school like he's a date coming to the front door for the first time. 

"What are you doing?" Scott asks Isaac. 

"I don't know," Isaac replies, perfectly content, and then offers, uncertainly, "You could come with us." 

Scott says something, but Stiles can't hear him over the buzzing in his ears caused by the sudden realisation that Derek is _wearing his mittens_. Derek is wearing Stiles' attempt at making clothing from _animal shavings_ out in _public_ , in front of his favourite packmember and the beta he's been trying to convince to join them for years and everybody else spilling out the doors of Stiles' school, and when Stiles gets his breath back and looks up, Derek is standing in front of him, waiting. 

"Hello," Stiles says. 

"Hello," Derek responds easily. "You're finished for the day?" 

"Yes," Stiles squeaks. 

"When are you finished for Christmas?" 

"Same as everyone else," Stiles tells him, and he's trying not to stare at the woolen addendums to Derek's hands, but he may as well have knitted the mittens in his original neon green yarn instead of the salmon pink he'd gone with, because somehow it's _just_ as eye-catching. 

"That was supposed to be calm and pretty," Stiles tells Derek earnestly, but Derek just looks puzzled. "It was--I am--not calm!" 

"Are you feeling all right?" Derek asks with concern, hand reaching out to brush Stiles' forehead briefly, before Scott slaps it away. 

"Fine," Stiles says faintly, and then, "No. No, not--I am _not_ , no." 

"At least I'm not the only one," Isaac says with gloomy satisfaction. 

"I'll give you a ride home," Derek offers. 

" _I_ will give him a ride home," Scott interjects, somehow insinuating himself between Stiles and Derek, which Stiles does not feel should have required quite as much jostling for position as it did. "You can come by when his dad is there." 

"Ditto," Derek says angrily. 

And Scott puts his hand into the crook of Stiles' elbow and tugs him away. 

"Not that I have any children! I don't have any children! Isaac is not my child!" Derek shouts. 

"Good to know!" Stiles calls back, and then Scott shoves him into his own Jeep and slams the door. 

"What the hell just happened," Stiles says. He isn't expecting an answer, because he knows his life better than that by now. 

"I think that went well," Scott says earnestly, and while Stiles stares at him in utter bafflement, he concludes, sheepishly, "Can I have a ride home now?" 

*

The next day, Scott makes Stiles crawl along the floor pretending to search for an eraser so he can catch a glimpse of the soles of Isaac's shoes and report back to Scott on the size, and then while Stiles is watching Scott knit Isaac way too many socks as part of whatever weird courtship ritual they have going on here, Coach Finstock sticks his head in the door. 

"Hello--kids!" he greets awkwardly, like he's surprised to see them all sitting there. "Working hard, I hope? My boys working hard for you, Mr Dixon?" 

Mr Dixon waves a negligent hand. "Most of them have already handed in their work, so I don't really care what they do now." 

Jackson's ears prick. "Like lacrosse practice? Is that why you're here, Coach?" 

"Nope!" Finstock says brusquely. Jackson subsides desolately. "I'm here for Mr Dixon--to see Mr Dixon! To see Mr Dixon about--important school business!" 

Mr Dixon does not appear at all interested in any kind of business. 

"About Greenberg!" Finstock finishes desperately. "Is Greenberg giving you trouble?" 

"I don't think I know a Greenberg," Mr Dixon says slowly. "But I don't really trouble myself with their names." 

"We have so much in common!" Coach Finstock says, his face glowing like Mr Dixon has flipped a switch. "We should get to--" 

He moves closer and lowers his voice, and Stiles can't make out the rest of their conversation. 

"Scott!" he hisses, though Scott is right beside him. "What are they saying?" 

"Dunno," Scott says. 

"I know you can hear them!" 

"I can't," Scott tells him, stretching his freshly completed sock until he's happy with its give. Isaac is watching him do it, so Stiles isn't sure why he had to engage in that subterfuge with the crawling around the desks at all, but Scott must have had a reason. "I don't listen to things I don't want to know." 

"But I want to know!" Stiles protests. 

"You really don't," Isaac tells him sleepily, and won't give him anything else even though Stiles begs and pleads and promises, and then a couple of minutes later Mr Dixon walks Coach Finstock to the door and the Coach apparently entirely accidentally gives him the football butt-slap as a goodbye, turns bright red, and flees the room, so maybe Isaac was right about that after all. 

There's a _reason_ they don't play football here. 

Stiles watches as Mr Dixon returns to his desk and buries his flushed face in an upside-down dictionary. 

"Why are they so dumb," Stiles says carelessly. 

He doesn't know why Isaac thinks that's so funny; that's just _true_. 

*

Stiles isn't sure how he ends up at dinner with the pack plus everybody else he knows, but he isn't going to complain about Derek buying pizza. 

"This is the greatest restaurant outside the city limits of Disneyworld," Stiles tells the table authoritatively. 

" _We_ know." Erica had a German test this afternoon, which is why she's half-asleep with her face planted on the Formica, but she still manages to sound above it all. "I wanted fajitas." 

Derek comes through the door and takes his seat at the table, pulling off Stiles' mittens and dropping them beside the water jug. 

"Warm out today, huh?" Stiles asks. "Unseasonable." 

"Is it?" Derek gestures at their server. "I don't really notice the weather." 

"Hint: it's _Californian_ ," Stiles informs him, but Derek is too busy ordering to respond, and then Scott says, "Why isn't Stiles' dad here?" 

"Why would my dad be here?" Stiles asks, perplexed. 

"Yes, Derek, why _isn't_ the Sheriff here?" Lydia chimes in. 

"Whoa," Stiles says, scratching his hand frantically through the air, cutting whatever the hell this is off at the pass. "We have met before, right? I mean, I was _invited_. I don't actually need my dad to hold my hand while I'm having dinner with my friends." 

The group nods as one, but looks doubtful. 

"It's too soon for that," Derek tells Lydia. "And we're not here about me tonight." 

"I'm just saying, some people at this table have people to watch out for them!" Scott says heatedly. "Not my person, but some people!" 

"Hey!" Isaac protests. 

"Sorry!" Scott blurts. "You're my person too, Stiles!" 

"I think you've misunderstood the purpose of this dinner, Scott," Derek says, and gives him a smile that's just a little too toothy. 

"Oh," Scott says slowly. " _Crap_." 

Stiles has never seen his dad give anybody the talk, but he'd always assumed it would involve some creepy stroking of his father's trusty sidearm. Derek's version involves flashing eyes and lengthening teeth, and it seems to do the trick. Stiles would pay more attention, but a couple of minutes in, the server comes over with their pies, and this _is_ the greatest pizza place on this or any coast. 

By the time Stiles is on his third slice, he's managed to slow down some, and has attention to spare for other things. 

" _Please_ stop speaking," Isaac is asking desperately, face hidden almost completely in his cupped hands. 

Scott doesn't. "--and really, if we happened to be into that, I don't see that it's any of your business, and this conversation is making me frankly uncomfortable. I find your line of questioning strange and disturbing." 

"Stop dodging the question," Derek says severely. 

" _No_." Stiles thinks that's a refusal to answer until Scott adds, bullishly, "I'm _not_ looking for that, but I would do it if Isaac wanted to. Do you want that, Isaac? We can talk about it. But if we're going to do that I'd really rather not use the head-clamp, because I just don't see how those can be sexy at all." 

"Oh, my God," Stiles marvels. "How did we end up here so quickly?" 

Isaac peers at Stiles from between his fingers. "You chew too slowly," he accuses. 

"Do you want to have sex in the head-clamp?" Stiles asks, suddenly wondering who threw this snowball down the hill. 

" _No_." The denial is vehement, and Isaac sounds annoyed enough about it that Stiles turns to squint suspiciously at Derek. 

"I would have sex in the head-clamp," Jackson decides. 

"We can have sex in the head-clamp if you really want to," Scott offers earnestly. Isaac makes a disgusted sound and drops his head to the table. 

Scott and Allison split up almost a year ago, but Stiles is newly glad she decided to have dinner at home tonight. He's pretty sure it was an attempt to cockblock her dad, although she hadn't exactly said that verbatim, and Stiles tries not to think about Chris Argent's sex life--and now he's really trying not to think about what Allison's sex life might once have been like--but he hopes that works out for her. 

"Why do you hate me?" Stiles asks his best friend plaintively, but Scott is entirely focussed on Isaac. 

"I didn't think you'd like--" he starts, and cuts himself off. "If this is something you've been thinking about, I would really like it if you told me what it is you've been _thinking_ ," he says carefully, putting a hand on the back of Isaac's head. 

Isaac sits up, but Scott's hand stays on his neck. "I haven't been thinking about that," he says sulkily, but he shifts closer to Scott and keeps speaking in a voice too low for Stiles to hear. 

"Damn it," Stiles says, frustrated. 

Derek gives him an amused smile, and Stiles glares at him, because nobody is giving him what he wants today, and Derek is no different, even if Stiles does actually want him to keep smiling like that, happy and relaxed and warm. 

"Would you have sex in the head-clamp?" Jackson asks Danny, who appears to consider the question seriously. 

"I don't think that would be safe," he tells Jackson. "I would want to purchase something similar from a reputable website." 

Stiles can't tell if Jackson is interested in Danny's answer because he's interested in Danny, or if he's about to start playing sex-kink chicken. 

Stiles' hand brushes Derek's when he grabs another slice of pizza, and he's feeling surly, so he says, "Get your own," before he realises this is Derek's plate too, and he's just picked up a slice from Derek's half of the pizza. It isn't exactly to Stiles' taste, but it's still good. 

Derek's mouth is quirked as he watches Stiles chew, so Stiles swallows and licks the rest of his slice, just to be sure. Derek laughs, which is not the reaction Stiles had been expecting. 

"Can I try one of yours?" he asks. 

Stiles only has one slice left, so he has to think about it, but he surrenders it with a fairly good grace. "How did you know what I wanted?" 

He'd even gotten Stiles' favourite blend of cheeses. Stiles isn't sure whether to be charmed or freaked out. 

"Asked Scott," Derek tells him. 

"I have purchased things from websites like that," Jackson tells Danny. "I would use them." 

"You haven't used them?" 

"I would use them! I would like to use them!" 

"I would like to use them," Boyd says, staring off into space. "Not on myself." 

Jackson and Danny stare at him speculatively, and then at each other. 

Derek isn't the neatest pizza-eater. Stiles reluctantly settles on charmed. 

"I will be supervising that," Derek says sharply, and Stiles is startled into silence until Isaac rolls his eyes at Derek before returning to his quiet conversation. 

"I'm not entirely sure what's going on at this table," Stiles admits sadly. "But I'm very sure you're being super creepy and inappropriate, dude. Do you think I can make Erica and Lydia happen?" 

He's pretty sure he can, if he either ignores or embraces the way Erica is looking thoughtfully between Boyd and Jackson and Danny, and reaching across the table to touch Boyd's hand and recapture his attention. 

"Not inappropriate," Derek denies, shoving another slice of pizza towards Stiles in an obvious attempt to distract him from the question of creepiness. It isn't Stiles' fault it works; Derek knows his fatal weakness. 

"I am my father's son," he tells his slice before shoving it into his mouth. 

Derek is still smiling at him, but Stiles is getting used to it pretty quickly. 

"You only have a couple days of school left, right?" Derek asks. 

"Yeah." Stiles may talk with his mouth full, but he's still better at eating pizza than Derek. 

"Do you have any plans for the break?" Derek picks up his mittens, tugging on the fingers in a movement that would indicate anxiety in anybody else. 

It doesn't matter that Stiles gave those mittens to Derek in a fit of insanity; he needs to stop thinking of them as Derek's. It's too weird. It's uncomfortable to see Derek touching them so familiarly, something Stiles put so much time and effort into making. 

"It's Christmas!" Scott says incredulously. "Of course he has plans." 

"I'm going ice-skating on Saturday," Derek tells the air above Stiles' shoulder, fingers shifting restlessly over the soft yarn in his hands. 

"Okay," their server says from behind Stiles. 

Derek's eyes refocus. "No," he says politely. "Not you." 

"Okay," she says, and keeps walking. 

"Oh, those kind of plans," Scott says, amused. 

"You're going _ice-skating?_ " Stiles asks, not entirely believing his ears, or maybe just not believing Derek. " _You?_ " 

"Yes," Derek says stiffly. 

"We're real busy at work right now," Boyd tells them. "Everybody wants to skate before Christmas." 

"I'm going ice-skating," Scott announces loudly. 

When Stiles turns to remind Scott that neither of them are natural ice-skaters, though Scott is sure to be better at it now, he gets distracted by the sight of Scott's arm thrown self-consciously around Isaac's shoulders, so he loses the opportunity to shut this down before Lydia says, "I _love_ ice-skating!" 

"You're not coming." Derek sounds angry with her, and Stiles kind of wants to glare at Lydia for lending her support to this ridiculous idea, but he isn't sure why Derek is scowling like that, because it was his stupid idea to begin with. 

" _Nobody_ should be ice-skating!" Stiles protests. "When did we all decide we wanted to ice-skate?" 

"I'm not ice-skating," Jackson announces, but nobody cares. 

"You don't like ice-skating?" Derek asks, uncertain. 

It isn't that Stiles doesn't like it, exactly; it's just that he's barely adequate, and he doesn't really want to put his flaws on display in front of Derek like that. Derek has already seen him on the bench at a dozen lacrosse games over the years, and Stiles doesn't want to give him _another_ example of how much the puny human sucks. 

"I've never given it much thought," he obfuscates. 

"I'll make sure Derek gets you proper skates," Scott tells Stiles virtuously. 

"Whoa," Stiles objects, because when did this become a _thing_? 

"You're not coming!" Derek snarls at Scott. 

"Then neither is anybody else," Scott tells Derek easily, and for some reason, that shuts Derek up. 

Stiles is a little dazed by how speedily the whole table agrees to give up the first Saturday of their holiday to spend an afternoon watching Stiles fall on his ass on the ice, but somehow that is a real thing that really happens. 

"Did I lose my mind this morning?" Stiles asks. 

"Not this morning," Lydia corrects sweetly. 

They leave then, and Stiles thinks about claiming coldness and asking to borrow Derek's mittens so he can conveniently forget to return them, but Derek pulls them back on before getting up from the table and stepping into the warm air outside, and Stiles can't bring himself to do it. 

*

The last few days before winter break fly by in a haze, and Stiles doesn't notice the time slipping away until he's sitting in his last class of the semester. 

"This is our last Christmas here," he tells Scott. 

"Yeah," Scott says. "Weird." 

"It's going to be a great Christmas." The content sound of Isaac's voice has Scott turning to nudge up against him, but Stiles is too bothered by his sudden realisation to give them more than a second to themselves. 

"What if we don't come home next year? Who knows where we'll even be?" 

Scott swings back around reluctantly. "We'll be where we want and we'll come home for Christmas." 

His matter-of-factness does not reassure Stiles. "You don't know that! I could be alone in my dorm room in the middle of a snowdrift in Wisconsin." 

"Are you applying to colleges in Wisconsin?" Isaac asks. 

"Not the point! The point is, anything could happen. This could be the last Christmas we have together." 

It's a horrible thought. Stiles doesn't know why this hasn't occurred to him before. 

"We're applying to the same schools in the same state," Scott reminds him. 

Oh, that's why. 

"Still!" Stiles isn't exactly sure what it is that's troubling him so much about this, but the longer he thinks about it, the further he falls into a blind panic that he can't reason his way out of. 

"There's half a year left," Isaac says reassuringly. 

"Don't give me math!" 

"Mr Dixon!" Scott calls, as the door slams shut behind their teacher. "He was supposed to teach me the Old Florentine stitch today. Now what am I supposed to give--" He slides his eyes towards Isaac, and then quickly away once he realises Isaac is looking at him. "--my mom. For Christmas. For my mom." 

Everybody knows Scott has his mom's favourite perfume stashed in the back of his closet, including his mom. They'd all had to listen to him whine about how broke he was as he saved up for it. 

"Why can my problems not be this ridiculous and easy?" Stiles complains. 

"This is _not_ easy," Scott says, and, "No, the needlework! The needlework, not you! Okay, maybe a little bit you, but not in a _bad_ way!" 

And then Stiles has to listen to Scott deal with Isaac's insecurities for ten minutes. He stops paying attention when they start making out beside him. They don't resurface until Finstock blunders into the room, peering around, and spots them. 

"No sucking face during class!" he shouts, and they slowly separate. "Why am I telling you this, I'm not even your teacher right now. Where's Mr Dixon?" 

"Seriously," Stiles says, disgusted. "Why can my life not be like _that_?" He waves an emphatic hand at the spectacle of his friends. 

"It could be." Isaac sounds puzzled. "Though probably not in class, because security at the school nowadays is reasonably decent, so the chances of that happening for you during opening hours--" 

"I'll wait," Coach Finstock says, and sits down in Mr Dixon's chair. 

"Do you know needlepoint, Coach?" Scott asks, like a dog after a bone. 

"No," Finstock admits, putting his feet up on Mr Dixon's table and settling in. "But I do know thirty-seven uses for vinegar. There were a hundred on the list, but I got bored." 

They're at twenty-two when the coach has to leave. Scott is a couple of tables away by then, scribbling secretively in his notebook. He's trying to work out how to make Isaac's present work without the stitch, Stiles thinks. 

"So what are you getting _him_ for Christmas?" 

"Headphones." This is actually a good choice, so Stiles nods approvingly. "You should make Derek something to go with those mittens." 

"Uh," Stiles says. " _No_." 

Isaac tries to talk him into it until Mr Dixon shows up just before the bell rings. 

"Does anyone know where Coach Finstock is right now?" he calls over the exodus, but nobody slows down enough to tell him. 

Stiles spots Scott and Isaac in the crowd, but they're slowed by being joined at the hip, so he forges onwards, first to his locker, and then down the corridor and out the doors into the bright sunlight and a freedom he isn't sure he wants, even if it's only temporary. 

Temporarily temporary. 

He starts to make his way to the parking lot, but stops when he sees Derek's car. Derek gets out. 

"Hey," Stiles greets. "Picking up Isaac? Supervising his time after school with Scott?" 

Derek looks torn, but he says, "No. I was going to give you a ride home." 

"Uh--I have my Jeep?" 

"Of course you do," Derek says awkwardly, and then just stands there, looking unsure and uncomfortable and-- 

And Stiles does actually have an idea of what's going on here, because he can only be so oblivious. He just--he doesn't _believe_ it. He doesn't believe Derek would do this now, two years after Stiles had forced his agonising crush on Derek to fade to a background hum, to a manageable level. He doesn't see how he can't be misinterpreting this. He doesn't see how he can let himself believe this might be possible. 

He doesn't know what Derek wants, and he doesn't know what _he_ wants, and he needs to get out of here. 

"I just thought we could--" Derek is at a loss, and the distracting mittens are nowhere to be seen, so when he twists his hands around each other, once, before dropping them to his sides where they clench and release and clench unconsciously, Stiles can see it for what it is. 

Anxiety looks the same on Derek as anyone else after all. 

The panic Stiles had been feeling earlier bubbles back up, choking him. "Hey, man, I have to go, because I'm in a rush, because I can't be seeing what I think I am and my dad is waiting for me, for me and Scott, for our afterschool ritual, not every day after school, just special occasions, because we're not weird or anything, but Scott is ditching because of Isaac, remember Isaac? Isaac. So I have to go because I really have to be somewhere else. I really--yeah." 

Stiles bolts past him. He isn't proud of his harried flight, but at least he doesn't start shaking until he's in his Jeep with the doors locked. It passes quickly, because it's ridiculous. He's ridiculous. 

But when he pulls out out of the parking lot, Derek is still standing by his car. 

*

"Christmas on Monday," his dad says later, as if he thinks Stiles might have forgotten. 

"Damn." Stiles snaps his fingers in feigned exasperation. "Did the presents under the tree give it away?" 

"Ten-foot inflatable Santa on the front lawn," his dad says with a grin. 

Stiles isn't a huge fan of over-the-top decorations, but his mom bought the Santa, so he still hauls it out every year. 

"What's the schedule look like?" he asks, hoping the spurt of happiness will buffer the inevitable disappointment. 

"Not on until eight," his dad says. "But you know." 

Stiles does know. "Pete probably has enough experience to handle things alone this year, though, right?" 

"Maybe. Depends what happens." 

"Nothing will happen," Stiles protests, although something always does. "You won't get called in early." 

"Yeah," his dad says, not promising anything. "You going to head on over to Scott's when I go in?" 

"Yeah, probably." Stiles' agreement is abstracted, because he isn't really sure what Scott's plans for Christmas are now. When he'd been with Allison he'd always stayed home, because she'd been at home with her own family, but Derek doesn't count as family, and Stiles is pretty sure the Hale place doesn't count as home to anybody. "He might be over at Derek's." 

His dad's eyebrows rise. "Scott and Hale?" 

"No!" Stiles shouldn't be as irritated with the assumption as he is. "But he might be there anyway." 

He thinks about telling his dad that it might be him, might be him and Hale, because that might be a possibility, though he isn't sure he wants it to be. He thinks about telling his dad the group is going skating tomorrow, and how he's wondering if it was supposed to be a date; he actually thinks about asking how he's supposed to tell, and what he's supposed to do about any of this. 

He doesn't say a word. 

"So you might be there too?" 

Stiles knows Erica and Boyd drop by to see Derek and Isaac on Christmas day, but he and Scott never have. He's never thought Christmas at Derek's would be very much like Christmas at all, and thinking about spending time there this year isn't making it any more appealing. "Yeah." 

"Well," his dad says equably. "As long as that's what you want to do." 

"Yeah," Stiles says, heart sinking, because no matter how gloomy a scene his imagination is painting, he really thinks it might be. 

*

The next day, Stiles sleeps until eleven and then eats both breakfast and lunch on the sofa watching a Degrassi marathon, because it doesn't count if nobody is around to judge. 

He's been trying to avoid thinking about the group expedition this afternoon, but he gets a text from Scott that says, simply, _Helmet?_ , and he shudders in horror and rolls off the sofa in an attempt to escape the flashbacks. He doesn't really need his old protective equipment for ice-skating anymore, but he's anxious enough that he's rushing around trying to dig it out just in case when another text from Scott arrives. This one says, _I got you man_ , which is inexplicable but comforting. 

When there's a knock on the door he's expecting it to be Scott, so his, "Hey," when he sees Derek is rather startled. 

Derek hefts a pair of skates at him and then just stands there, waiting. He looks furious, but also like a stiff breeze of wind might blow him over, so Stiles steps backwards and jerks his head in invitation. 

Derek closes the door behind himself and freezes, really obviously trying to figure out what to do next, which would normally be fine because Stiles would do or say something to take the pressure off, but although his mouth is open, his mind is an utter blank, and things do not improve when he realises Derek's eyes are on his pursed lips. He presses them together and wonders why the hell he asked Derek in. 

"Is that Degrassi?" Derek asks, and steps past Stiles to take a seat on the couch. 

"It is," Stiles says incredulously. 

"Laura used to watch this." 

Stiles eases himself down beside Derek, dropping the skates on the floor at his feet. "I wasn't expecting you." 

"I thought I'd give you a ride to the rink." Derek's eyes are fixed on the screen, unblinking. 

"Again, I have a Jeep," Stiles says. 

"I thought it might be nice," Derek says, and the politeness is strained until he adds, bewildered, "I don't know any of these people." 

"Yeah." Stiles watches the vague sadness grow on Derek's face, and he knows he has to say something, if only because he needs that to stop, needs it to go away now. "That happens." 

There's really no getting around it; Stiles is going to have to make some kind of attempt to confront reality, though he would have preferred to brush things under the carpet until he felt like he was capable of dealing. It's Christmas. That's practically tradition! 

"So, if you're picking me up, is this a--" Derek's hands spasm anxiously. In his _mittens_. "--are those my mittens? Why are you wearing my mittens?" 

Derek's face is puzzled, but it shifts quickly into irritation. "Did you not want me to wear them? Because if that's the case, I'm questioning why you _gave_ them to me." 

Stiles doesn't know why he thought he could deal with any of this. 

"--Indoors," he says weakly. "I don't know why you're wearing them indoors." 

Derek flexes his hands deliberately. "I like them," he says, like he's expecting an argument. 

"Who wouldn't?" Stiles thinks he does a pretty good job of feigning arrogance, for somebody who couldn't get _anybody_ but Derek Hale to accept his homemade mittens as a gift. 

"They're warm." 

"It's warm _out_ ," Stiles says, widening his eyes. 

"It's winter," Derek says. "Feels like winter." 

"Okay." Maybe Derek's body responds differently to heat. Stiles makes a mental note to ask Scott, because that might actually be a thing. Scott hadn't started knitting gloves for everybody until he'd become a werewolf. 

"They're very well made," Derek says, and sounds like he means it. 

"Hell, yes, they are," Stiles says, trying to believe it. "I did not spend all that time with Boyd's Gram for nothing. Look, she taught me ribbing!" Derek holds his hands out in front of his face and regards them seriously as Stiles leans forwards to run his finger over the yarn. "She wanted to teach me cable, but I wasn't up to that." 

Derek lets his hands fall to his knees, and Stiles' fall along with them, tangled up, because Stiles is distracted by the sudden turn of Derek's head, the sly smile he directs Stiles' way. He can't look away from Derek's eyes. They're much closer than he had realised. 

"You could have done it if you had tried," Derek says. "You just don't." 

"Oh," Stiles says breathlessly, not really processing that. 

"You get distracted so easily." 

That's true, and Derek doesn't mean anything bad by it; he's smiling into Stiles' face and his eyes are dark and amused and still locked with Stiles', but it isn't--it doesn't feel okay, although it is, although Stiles knows he _is_. 

Derek must see something on his face, because his hands are curling around Stiles', trapping them in a cloud of soft warmth. 

"You don't need to know cable knitting, though. I wouldn't have the patience to learn to knit at all." 

"I could teach you," Stiles offers impulsively, and then wants to _bite his tongue out_. 

Derek considers it, but says, "It would be a waste of your time." 

"Yeah," Stiles says, relieved. "It would. Not because you'd be terrible or anything! Because I don't think you would be terrible, but it is true that you do not have the most patience or the best temper, and I don't even know how to knit cable. Why would you want me to teach you anything?" 

Derek is still smiling. Stiles knows he isn't hallucinating, because he would definitely dream up something better to do with Derek than stare at his mouth as he smiles, but this doesn't feel quite real. It feels good, though. 

"These are nice," Derek says. "I would like to be able to knit like this." 

"You're being polite, right?" Stiles questions, and decides, "You don't want to knit, you're being polite," because he doesn't think he can handle any other possibility. He hops off the sofa. "Okay, hey, thanks for the skates, but I have some other stuff I need to grab before we leave." 

He flees the room. It takes him a while to find his old skating stuff, and he's expecting a shout from Derek every second he searches, but Derek has enough patience for this, even if his eyes are glazed with boredom by the time Stiles sticks his head back in to say, "You coming or what?" and taps his foot until Derek does. 

* 

"Where are we going?" Stiles asks, when Derek turns left instead of right. "This is the wrong way." 

"Settle down," Derek says shortly, as Stiles peers out at their surroundings like a kid with his nose--literally--pressed to the sweetshop window. Or like some kind of canine doing some kind of something in some kind of car; Stiles tries not to make comparisons like that anymore, because his friends don't take very kindly to them. 

"But we're going the wrong way, and we're already late." 

"This isn't the wrong way." 

Stiles cranks around so he can lean over Derek and peer out _Derek's_ window, just in case that changes their bearing somehow. 

"Stiles!" Derek slaps hard at his shoulder, glaring, but Stiles is pretty immune to both of those things by now, so he just sticks his elbow into Derek's gut in retaliation as he points out Derek's side of the car. 

"Holly Street, take Holly Street," he instructs. 

Derek ignores him until Stiles digs his elbow into Derek's bladder, and then he sweeps Stiles' arm out from under him so Stiles goes sprawling across Derek's lap. "That's not where we're going," he growls. 

"But--oh!" Stiles is pretty sure he's glowing as he levers himself up so he can check Derek's grumpy face for clues. "Are we going to the outdoor rink? I really want to go to the outdoor rink, Derek, can we go to the outdoor rink? Can we, huh?" 

" _Yes_ ," Derek drawls in annoyance, but he's grinning despite himself. 

Stiles settles back into his seat peacefully, because Derek deserves some sort of reward for making this more enjoyable than it could have been, even if Stiles still isn't going to be having any actual, technical, real _fun_. 

"Good job," Stiles says, and watches Derek's smile grow out of the corner of his eye. "I might even buy you a hot chocolate." 

"Nah," Derek drawls again, but there's nothing annoyed about it at all this time. "I got you." 

And Stiles might argue that if he weren't too busy trying to conceal his own smile. 

*

They're the last to arrive; everyone else is already on the ice when they get there. Stiles commandeers a bench at the edge of the rink and drops all his gear on the ground, before staring down at it wondering why the hell he brought it at all. 

"Is that your lacrosse padding?" Derek asks. 

"Nothing else fit," Stiles tells him morosely. 

"Is that a helmet?" 

"It doesn't really fit anymore either, but I wasn't sure I should be going out there without one." 

"You do know how to skate, don't you?" 

"I've totally skated before," Stiles scoffs, adjusting the strap on the helmet. It's a losing battle. "I took classes as a kid. Many classes." 

"I've never taken a class," Derek says in an odd tone of voice. He pulls the helmet from Stiles' hands. "You're not going to hit your head. We're not going to be going that fast." 

"Says you," Stiles mutters. "I've seen you run. Look at Scott." 

He waves a despairing hand at his best friend, zooming around the ice like he's training for the Olympics, like he hadn't stopped coming to their skating class once he stopped falling down. 

"It is true that werewolves have superior balance," Derek says thoughtfully. "I've never fallen on the ice." 

"Lucky you." Stiles can't help being gloomy. This is not his idea of fun. "I used to be terrible at skating," he admits reluctantly. "But I'm better now, so I'm just going to leave this here. I don't know why I brought it." 

"We'll go around the ice and come back and sit down." Derek watches as Stiles does up his skates before starting in on his own. "It will be relaxing and enjoyable." 

"It doesn't sound like you believe that," Stiles says suspiciously. "Why were you so hot to come out here if you're not into ice-skating?" 

"I'm told it's traditional," Derek says, fingers awkward on the fastenings of his skates. "A traditional winter activity." 

"For families with kids and _couples_ ," Stiles says, and then has to pretend that his face hasn't just gone bright red. 

Derek is pushing himself to his feet, not looking at Stiles, so Stiles follows suit quickly, and says, determinedly peppy, "We should get out there! Don't want to lose the light." 

"Yes," Derek says grimly, as Stiles steps out, eyes going past Stiles to the figures traversing the ice. 

Stiles' heart sinks, which is ridiculous, because he hadn't even wanted this to be a date. He shouldn't care that his lack of sporting ability is discouraging Derek. And he _doesn't_. He doesn't care about any of this. "I'm okay at this now," he tells Derek miserably. 

"There's a learners' area, right?" Derek asks. 

"Yes!" Stiles' traitorous heart leaps in excitement. "I would like to stay there." 

"Yeah," Derek says darkly, and steps onto the ice beside Stiles. 

"Hey--" Stiles starts, and then breaks off to yell, "Slow lane!" at a young child blatantly breaking the speed limit as she whizzes by them. 

When he turns back, Derek is _wobbling_. 

"Hey!" His breath precedes his voice, almost lost in the disbelieving puff of air. 

"We should move, right?" Derek asks. 

"Can you not skate?" That's a lot of octaves for one sentence, but Stiles feels it is deserving of more. 

"I've never tried," Derek says judiciously. "But given my abilities, you would think I would be able to, right?" 

"Do not get technical with me!" Stiles yelps, as Derek sways alarmingly. 

Stiles reaches out to grab Derek's hands so he doesn't fall on his ass right there, and Derek _clings_. 

"I can walk on ice," Derek says, sounding pretty desperate already. "I've never fallen." 

"It's the blades," Stiles tells him. "You'll get used to them, you just need to move, come on--" 

When Stiles pushes off, he keeps Derek's hands in his, forcing him to follow. He catches sight of Boyd and Erica surrounded by a small group of people as they do a death spiral, but he can't point them out to Derek, because Derek's hands are clenched around Stiles'. They shuffle onwards awkwardly, and after a minute, Stiles manages to work up the beginnings of a rhythm. 

Then one of Derek's skates slips wildly, and Stiles clutches at him frantically to keep him on his feet. One hand ends up on Derek's waist, and the other on his back. He starts laughing; he can't help it. He hides his face in Derek's shoulder, but he can't stop laughing. 

"This was supposed to be--" Derek's voice is frustrated in Stiles' ear, and Stiles wants to ask him why he cares, what this is supposed to be, why Derek is doing any of this. He wants to know if his suspicions are correct. His chuckles fade, but the laughter lingers as he lifts his head to make a start on his questions. 

Before he can speak, a voice blares, "Hey, Bilinski, can't your boyfriend stand on his own two feet?" 

"Ah!" Stiles squeaks, horrified. "Hi, Coach." 

Finstock is in the slow lane too, which doesn't make sense until Stiles sees Mr Dixon standing behind him. 

"Mine can!" Finstock jerks a thumb over his shoulder. 

"Please don't mention me to the students," Mr Dixon says, but he sounds resigned already, so Stiles figures Finstock will get away with it. 

"Why not! They know you exist!" 

"I would prefer they didn't," Mr Dixon says, then catches Stiles' eye and rethinks that. "I would prefer they were not party to my personal life." 

"As long as they're not party to your person!" the Coach booms, and when he slaps Mr Dixon's ass again, this time it's deliberate. Stiles would have more of a reaction to this if he hadn't immediately averted his eyes for fear of being struck blind. "That's all I care about." 

"Can we not and say we did?" Stiles asks the pale blue sky. 

Mr Dixon tugs Finstock past them. They both seem pretty steady on their skates for people who are staying out of the action, but Stiles is really trying not to think about the fact that this area is primarily for kids who can barely walk and people who are more interested in holding hands than avoiding high-speed collisions, so he ignores the thought. 

But when he turns his head to say goodbye, he can't ignore that Dixon and Finstock have somehow linked hands in the seconds he left them unsupervised, and then he realises he's _still holding Derek's hand_ , in front of his _teachers_ , so he drops it like a lead weight, but has to pick it right back up when Derek turns shaky without the support. 

"Do we have to say we did?" Mr Dixon throws over his shoulder as he skates away. "I'd rather not." 

"That works too!" Stiles shouts after them, and then sighs as he turns back to Derek. "Can we sit down now? I feel like I need to sit down." 

"I want to skate," Derek says stubbornly. 

"Okay, let's get this over with." Stiles pulls Derek along until they're moving in a slow, coltish glide. 

"What do you mean, get this over with?" Derek asks, once his hand has loosened its death-grip on Stiles. "You don't have to do this." 

"I'm helping you out here," Stiles teases. "If you keep giving me the grumps, I'm going to think you're right, and I don't need to be here at all." 

Derek's hand tightens on his, but he only says, with another smile, "Whatever. Like you have anywhere better to be." 

Stiles doesn't know how to respond to that, to Derek smiling and teasing, to Derek flirting. Because that's what this is. Derek is _flirting_. 

He isn't great at it, but neither is Stiles, so it still counts. It might even count double. 

"Is that what you're trying to do here?" Stiles asks. 

Derek's eyes are on the blades of his skates as they cut through the ice. "Hmm?" 

"Give me something good?" 

Stiles feels silly asking that, but then Derek looks up at him, startled, and loses his rhythm, and Stiles has to grab his windmilling hand to steady him, and he's too warm and amused to worry about it even before Scott, Isaac and Boyd come to a neat stop beside them. 

The only thing he has to worry about then is that his friends are seeing him holding both of Derek's hands and looking up into his face like they're on the cover of one of those figure skating romantic dramas that Stiles has absolutely never ever watched. 

"I would _never_ watch such a thing!" he declares passionately to the group, though they hadn't asked and have no idea what he's talking about. 

"Sure, buddy," Scott says easily. 

"Why aren't we at your work?" Stiles accuses Boyd. "Don't you get a discount?" 

"Ask your boy," Boyd says. "I didn't even want to come here today. I do not need more time on the ice." 

"I was told you'd like the atmosphere of the outdoor rink." Derek frowns at Scott. 

"You love it outdoors!" Scott informs Stiles. It's the first Stiles has heard of it. "People are too busy to judge you, plus it's romantic. Why're you over here in the kiddie rink?" 

"Hey!" a random three-year-old protests. She's steadier on her feet than Stiles and Derek, so it's a fair point. 

Scott tries to avoid the dirty glares directed his way by disgruntled moms; Stiles tries to avoid contemplating Scott believing he would like this to be romantic. 

"We're getting hot chocolate," Boyd tells them. "You want?" 

"We're going this way." Derek tugs on Stiles' hand until they're facing away from their friends. "You go that way." 

"Fine," Scott says. "But I can still _see_ you!" 

"Stop watching us, weirdo!" Stiles yells, and starts moving. 

"And hear you!" 

"Stalker!" Stiles calls, sing-song. "Isaac can hear _you_!" 

As they retreat--proceed away with dignity--he hears Scott asking, worriedly, "You don't think I'm a creepy stalker, do you?" and Isaac responding, "Not creepy, though you are kind of worse than Derek," and finally Boyd, laughing. 

"You wanted to come here," Derek says, as they battle on. "You said you wanted to come." 

"I like it better than the indoor rink," Stiles says. "But it isn't really my thing." 

"So why did you want to do this?" 

Stiles pauses. "I don't know what you think is happening here," he says, though he's pretty sure he does. Derek is just surprisingly bad at it. "I didn't want to go ice-skating." 

"Scott said you did." 

" _Yeah_ ," Stiles drawls, helplessly amused. "Taking dating advice from the guy who insisted on crashing so he could supervise. Good job." 

"Oh." Derek's cheeks turn faintly pink, and that's when Stiles realises he just used the D-word. 

"Not--not that--" he stutters, swallows, and says, through his panic, "You promised me hot chocolate, right? Let's do that." 

"The guys are still in the queue," Derek objects, eyes seeing where Stiles' can't, looking away because he doesn't want to look at Stiles. 

Stiles doesn't know how he feels about that, but that's the new normal, so he ignores it. "We'll stay behind them," he says firmly. "They won't even know we're there. Plus, by the time we make it over, they'll be long gone." 

He's _still_ holding Derek's hand, even through all that, so Derek has to start moving when Stiles does. Stiles doesn't speak, concentrating on his footwork. He can see Derek staring at him, and he's feeling kind of self-conscious and embarrassed, but also annoyed, because Derek's skating ability is greatly improved when he isn't thinking. He's too distracted to notice, so at least Stiles' verbal misstep is good for something. 

Unfortunately, Stiles' co-ordination is shot when he's distracted, and he has to focus on his feet so he doesn't fall over them, so he's the one who glides into Finstock, the impact sending the Coach stumbling, interrupting his kiss with Mr Dixon. 

"Sorry!" Stiles squeaks. "I didn't see this, because I'm _blind_ , my eyes, why?" 

He hurries past them, ignoring Finstock's shout of, "The way a man skates tells you a lot about how he--his lovemaking technique, you know!" 

Because _seriously_ , Stiles' psyche can only take so much trauma. 

"It really doesn't," Derek says awkwardly, struggling to keep up. 

"Shut up." Stiles' voice is embarrassingly high, but he doesn't even care. He stops dead, horror and despair short-circuiting his will to keep going. "This _never happened_. None of this ever happened." 

"It's still happening," Derek says, frowning at him, hand tightening though he's in no danger of falling. "Here's the hot chocolate, come on." 

He's the one who starts moving this time, towing Stiles to the end of the line, though Stiles is the one who has to stop them. 

Derek looks determined, and like he's already achieved something, and when he slides his eyes over to Stiles he's careful to keep his face forward. "You want hot chocolate," he says, sure. 

Stiles takes a deep breath. "I want marshmallows," he agrees, and strokes his thumb over the columns of his ribbing as they crawl towards the front of the queue. 

When Scott's group reaches the counter, Stiles drops Derek's hand. 

"I need to--" He gestures at their friends. "--ask Scott something. I'll be back in a minute." He shuffles away before turning back to ask, "Please don't listen." 

He thinks Derek will accede to his request, but there's only one way to find out, and if Derek doesn't, maybe that's the answer to his question anyway. 

Scott is frowning at the board behind the counter, saying, "How am I supposed to remember what Jackson wanted? There were a lot of words, I didn't listen." 

"Just get another hot chocolate," Isaac says impatiently. 

"Get a mocha," Boyd disagrees. "He'll like being the only person who has one." 

"Hey," Stiles says urgently, grabbing Scott's arm. 

"What does Jackson drink?" Scott asks. "Screw it, mocha, I don't care." 

"Hey," Stiles says again, ignoring the curiosity of the girl behind the counter, ignoring the fact that every werewolf out here can hear him, if they're listening, because he's desperate enough for advice that none of that seems to matter. "What's even happening right now?" 

Scott's expression is pitying. "If you don't know that, I'm not sure I can help you." 

"No, I mean--what am I supposed to do about it?" 

"What do you want to do?" Scott asks practically. Stiles doesn't have an answer, and Scott can read his indecision in his face, so he adds, "Figure it out. That's what you need to do." 

"But how am I supposed to do that?" 

"In a totally hands-off manner," Scott says sternly. "No touching!" 

"That's no fun," Isaac says. 

Scott looks conflicted before saying, "Yeah, but we knew what we were doing. If Stiles goes in and changes his mind--" 

Isaac makes a thoughtful noise. "Yeah, okay." 

"Yeah," Scott repeats unhappily, frowning at Stiles, who has no attention to spare for this byplay. 

"But more importantly, even if I did know what I want, I have no idea what the hell I'm doing or how to get it," he says. 

"Ask," Boyd says flatly. 

It takes Stiles a second to respond to that, because the thought is so disconcerting. "I can't just ask Derek for things," he says, and he tries for dismissive, but it comes out wobbly instead. "Derek doesn't give me things. He's never cared what I want." 

"I'm done with this conversation." Boyd grabs a thick cardboard tray of cups and turns to where the girls and Jackson are waiting in the distance, staring over like the creepy eavesdroppers they are. "It's too stupid for me." 

"You should try it," Scott says, "see what happens." 

"I know what will happen." 

"Maybe you're right." He's clearly being humoured. "But you could find out." 

"No, seriously, what the hell is happening here?" Stiles asks pathetically, but Scott just laughs and grabs the remaining tray of drinks and Isaac's arm and sails away, so Stiles repeats the question into the thin air, to the universe, but it doesn't have an answer for him either. 

"No cutting," the girl behind the counter tells him. 

The amused twist of her mouth is making him uncomfortable, so he works his way back to Derek, asks, bullishly, "Did you listen to any of that?" Derek shakes his head, but Stiles' voice is petulant and disapproving when he says, "Good," and then he glares balefully at the back of the guy in front of them. 

"So, this is a date," Stiles says, because he has to say something. 

Derek looks at him with wide eyes. The line moves forward. 

"That was the idea," Derek says cautiously. 

"I don't even know why I'm here," Stiles tells him. 

"You don't have to be here if you--" Derek starts stiffly, and Stiles cuts him off, because he has no time for Derek's bullshit. 

"No, that wasn't what I meant, I mean-- _why_? Why did you do this now? Why did you ask me to come here with you?" 

"Because you wanted to," Derek says, surprised. "Not _here_ , but with me. Didn't you?" 

"What gave you that idea?" 

That isn't intended as a denial, exactly, but Derek is scowling stonily at him, glancing across the ice to the rest of the pack, sipping their hot chocolate while they watch the show. 

"You gave me a Christmas gift," Derek says. His voice is closer to a snarl than Stiles has heard in a long time. "You've never done that before." 

"I gave you _mittens_ ," Stiles says disbelievingly, because Derek doesn't seem to get it. 

" _Exactly_ ," Derek says, as Stiles finishes, "Nobody else _wanted_ them!" 

Derek freezes. 

"Oh," he says. 

The line moves forward, and they're standing in front of the curious server. 

"What can I get you?" she asks. 

"Nothing," Derek says. "Sorry." 

He turns away from the stand, from the rink, turns away from _Stiles_. He's moving strongly, if unsteadily, but slowly enough that Stiles can stumble after him and grab his arm to say, "Hey," frantically. 

Derek stills, and Stiles' hands slide down the leather of his jacket and latch on to his wrists, keeping him there. He'd thought about putting tassels on the mittens, but Lydia had told him it would be in poor taste. He wonders if Derek would have worn them anyway. 

Derek takes his hands again, fingers biting into his, making his bones ache, and Stiles squeezes back. He thinks he doesn't understand the dark, glittering look Derek is giving him, and then his breath catches as he realises that's a lie, he's lying to himself. He knows what this is; he'd just never expected to get it. 

He'd never expected to _have_ this, and this isn't even a possibility: he has it already. 

His breath shudders out as he thinks about stretching up to kiss Derek, to try, because he has to do something, and he tightens his grip on Derek's hands and pulls closer and sends them both crashing to the ground. 

He's always been good at that. 

Derek forces himself back up onto his feet, untangling himself from Stiles. "I'm going home," he says curtly. "Scott will give you a ride." 

He doesn't wobble once as he skates away, probably because all he's thinking about is getting away from Stiles, no room to spare for doubt. 

Stiles watches until he's gone, and then the girl behind the counter says, "Are you okay? Do you want me to call somebody?" 

There's an entire line of people waiting to be served, watching Stiles' humiliation. 

But this doesn't feel like humiliation, though it should. Stiles has enough experience of the emotion to be able to judge. 

"Do you still want cocoa?" the guy behind him in line asks, holding out a hand to offer assistance. "Only you're kind of holding everybody up, so it would be great if you could decide. Either way, just, you know. Soon." 

"I'm good," Stiles says, and staggers to the side to wait for Scott, zooming towards him, coming to take him home. 

*

Scott comes inside when they get to Stiles' house, so he's sitting at the kitchen table when Stiles asks his dad, "So if you hurt somebody by accident and you regret doing it, and more than that it kind of--" 

"Turns into a total public disaster," Scott finishes with relish, but also sympathy, so it evens out. 

"Shut up," Stiles tells him. "You sucked, you were no help at all." He turns back to his dad. "It kind of really--" 

"Hurts?" his dad finishes, and Stiles nods waveringly. "Because you feel their hurt." His dad sucks in a breath and turns shining eyes to the ceiling. "I did not want to have this conversation with you for another--decade. Longer. People are getting married so late these days, I'd kind of hoped I'd played my cards right, and this would never have to happen at all!" 

"I don't--" Stiles says, and stops to swallow, wet his dry mouth. "I don't know what's happening." 

"Stiles," Scott sighs, and Stiles glares, because you do not get to be somebody Stiles listens to on this topic if your girlfriend dumps you because you insult her pet cat's personality one too many times. Stiles feels such ridiculousness disqualifies you from the job. 

But then Scott says, "I've been in screwed up situations in relationships plenty of times--" and Stiles has to agree. "--but this takes the cake." 

"Stiles," his dad says, and Stiles stops paying attention to Scott so he can listen to his dad, because--because. What he had is what Stiles wants. "This is a good thing. I know you don't think so--" Stiles is shaking his head frantically, and attempting to ignore his father's kind voice, because he's a little bit afraid he's going to _cry_ , just on principle. "I _know_ you don't think so. But feeling hurt means this matters. It means this is--this is going to leave a mark. Even if it's nothing. It's still going to do that. It should." 

Stiles can't stop staring at his father. He knows his eyes are scary-wide, like a deer in headlights, or a person who's about to faint, which he might. 

"But you're young," his father says weakly, and Stiles says, "It's not nothing." 

His father nods, and it's uncertain too, and Stiles has such a spike of fellow-feeling he reaches across the table to touch his father's hand. He regrets it, though, because that's weird. 

"Yeah," he says gruffly, and clears his throat. "It's not nothing." 

His father nods again, and this time it's sure, and his face is pained. 

"I don't know how to make it be something?" Stiles tries tentatively, squinting awkwardly at his dad. He's pretty sure his dad must have been the worst everything ever, but beggars can't be choosers, and his dad _got_ everything he wanted, even if only for a while. "Given how much I may just have fucked up." 

His dad takes a deep breath and nods understandingly. 

" _Great_ ," Stiles says sincerely. 

"I'm going home," Scott rushes out, unwilling to be confronted with other people's uncomfortable emotions. "I don't know how to deal with this, and also you both are weird. No offence, Mr Stilinski, but you _are_!" 

"Offence taken," Stiles says dully. "Whatever, fader." 

"No going home," Stiles' dad says staunchly, and Stiles perks up, because Scott may be almost useless, but he doesn't want to be in this alone with his _dad_. "You're the only one who knows how to knit." 

*

So Stiles learns cable overnight, which he would not have thought was possible. 

He's attempting to cast on, but only managing to stab himself in the index finger over and over again, when he tells his dad, "So Derek's probably coming over for Christmas." 

"Hmm," his dad grunts, and that doesn't mean anything in particular, but that just means Stiles reads it in the worst light possible. 

"And I don't even care too much how much you don't want that to happen," Stiles lies gloomily, starting to knit. His knitting is miserable, because knitting has these characteristics. He glares at his yarn. "Because it probably won't, so it doesn't even matter. Derek will probably never--" 

It hurts to think maybe the things he's only beginning to believe were his for the taking aren't a possibility any longer. He's trying not to think about that. 

"Hmm," his dad grunts thoughtfully, as Stiles subsides disconsolately. He gets up and leaves the room without a word. 

Stiles keeps knitting, because it's his only lifeline at this point, and then when Stiles is halfway through his scarf, his dad walks back into the room, and Derek is behind him. 

"Uh," Stiles says, and shoves his knitting behind his back. "Hi." 

"Hello." Derek hovers behind Stiles' dad, so Stiles gets to his feet, but then he has no idea what to do, so he just stands there with his knitting needles sticking out from behind his back. He tries to shuffle them around so they're hidden, but he just ends up jabbing himself in the arm and dropping his ball of yarn. 

Everybody watches it roll across the floor, but nobody makes a move to pick it up, and then Stiles's dad clears his throat and says, "So, I asked Hale to come over so you could sort yourselves out and tell me what's happening with dinner tomorrow." 

"Dad!" Stiles says furiously. 

His dad holds his hands up defensively. "I need to know these things, Stiles. It's Christmas dinner, I'm not having a guest sprung on me at the last minute, because I'm going to need to go out and get some more Brussels sprouts for him." 

"Please don't," Stiles says. "You can just go ahead and throw out the ones you have." 

"You like Brussels sprouts, Derek?" his dad asks, clapping a heavy hand on Derek's shoulder. 

"Yes," Derek says warily, staring at the hand. 

"I knew you couldn't be all bad. I'm going to go into the kitchen and pretend not to be listening to your conversation. This door is staying open." He points emphatically at the door, Stiles, and Derek, and vanishes. 

"Or we could just have a TV dinner again!" Stiles yells after him. 

"Store's out of turkey dinners," his dad calls back. "Chicken doesn't count." 

Stiles doesn't feel bad about that until he looks at Derek. "That only happened one time," he excuses. "And it was five years ago." 

Derek gives him polite blankness, and it's then Stiles remembers that Derek probably isn't having any kind of Christmas dinner tomorrow. Stiles isn't even sure he'd bother making himself turkey sandwiches. 

He wants to ask, but he doesn't. "So I was going to invite you over for dinner," he says slowly, and it sounds stilted. 

"That's kind of you," Derek starts, "but I really don't think--" 

"But that would be awkward, with everything that happened yesterday," Stiles interrupts. "So I was hoping we could talk about it first. Well, not really hoping, because I'm not the biggest fan of painfully uncomfortable conversations about emotions, but I think we need to have one. I would like it if we could just speed right through it. That would be good for me." 

"Say what you want," Derek says shortly. 

His hands twitch, and he links them behind his back. 

"You're not wearing your mittens," Stiles says blankly, and takes a breath, because that's a good place to start. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't think you'd want them. I didn't think you'd want anything from me." 

"I do," Derek says, and Stiles' heart thuds. 

"I would have given you--" He stops, tries again. "I would have given you anything, for a long time, and you didn't want it, so I made myself stop thinking like that, because I knew it was never going to happen, and I was just--" 

"I wanted it," Derek says. 

"Oh," Stiles says. "No, you didn't." 

"I did," Derek says slowly, like Stiles is stupid. "You never offered." 

"I couldn't just--" Stiles' pulse is fluttering frantically, and he feels like he's going to fall down or step forward, or do something really dangerous, like believe this is really happening. "I never thought you would want it." It's hard to accept that he does, even now. "And I never thought you could ever be like that, like you were yesterday, like--" 

"I was just being nice to you," Derek says, and when Stiles laughs, "What? Why wouldn't--What?" 

Stiles doesn't really know what to say to that, to Derek frowning into his face, apparently genuinely baffled. 

"You never have been before," he says before he's aware of the thought, and he hates that he says it, hates that it comes out sharp and hurt. 

Derek's face reddens, and it's a minute before he meets Stiles' eyes. "But I am now," he says. "Why _wouldn't_ I be?" 

And Stiles doesn't know what to _say_ to that. 

"I wanted you to enjoy yourself," Derek says, and then, with difficulty, "I wanted you to like it." 

"I did," Stiles says softly. "I just didn't--I didn't believe it." 

"It was a date." Derek's voice is tentative, like he thinks Stiles might try to deny that. "It wasn't life or death, or--it wasn't anything _bad_. It was just you, and it was a date." 

"Okay," Stiles says dubiously, nodding, and then he thinks of his favourite pizza place, and Derek ordering his favourite pizza, and when he says, "Okay," again it's fainter, and it's stronger. "We can go with that. If we're both saying yes, here." 

"Yes," Derek says. 

"Whoa," Stiles says. "Hang on." 

"Are you not saying yes?" Derek asks, frustrated, "Because you just--" 

Stiles holds up a hand to stop him, which puts his half-completed scarf directly in front of Derek's face, so he shoves it behind his back again. 

"I'm not saying no!" he says. "I just need to figure out what the fuck I am doing or feeling." 

"Okay," Derek says, and picks up Stiles' ball of yarn and holds it out to him, and Stiles smiles helplessly. 

"What are you--" 

"You know," Derek says. "You have to know by now." 

"Because this may have escaped your notice, but this is a brand new world for me, and I'm just having a little difficulty adjusting for the horizons, okay?" 

"Okay," Derek says. 

" _Yeah_ ," Stiles says sarcastically. " _So_ helpful, thanks." 

Derek nods, because he does not get sarcasm. 

"I want--" Stiles starts, before he rethinks what he's about to say, which is, _I want this, I want to do this, I want you to be here right now, I want you, come_ here. _This is what I want_. 

Because he knows what they're about to do will be whatever he wants. 

"Why did you wear my mittens?" he asks, and he sounds like he's asking for reassurance, but he _isn't_ , he just wants to _know_. He needs to know. "I never thought you would do that." 

"Not--because they're a gift," Derek says, and then shakes his head impatiently. "Not because I'm polite." Stiles laughs, and Derek grins brightly at him for a second before it fades to a frown, but it's okay, because it isn't an unhappy expression, just a thoughtful one, and Stiles wants to reach out and touch it, feel it under his fingertips. 

He opens his mouth to say something light, something that will diffuse all this, but before he can, Derek says, "Because you gave them to me. Because you _gave_ them to me." Derek's face is smooth and sure as he looks at Stiles. "Because you--" He swallows. 

"Oh," Stiles says wonderingly, and Derek backs up a step, suddenly skittish, so Stiles follows him and tangles his hands in the fabric of Derek's pressed shirt before Derek can go anywhere. The needles dig into Derek's chest, so Stiles lets them drop to the floor with a clang. 

Stiles doesn't know what to do with everything he can see in Derek's face, or with everything he knows Derek can see in his, but he moves towards Derek anyway, because he has to do _something_ , and it's more effort than he can make not to do this, not to move into Derek's space and feel his breath catch as Derek's stutters, and watch the wash of emotion as it breaks, a tumbling wave that Stiles understands more than he would have thought possible. 

"Okay," he whispers into Derek's mouth. "Yes." 

And they begin. 

*

When Derek arrives for dinner the next afternoon, he's wearing his mittens, which is a relief, because Stiles would have felt like an idiot giving him a salmon-pink hat and scarf otherwise. 

As it is, Derek's face lights up. 

"Shut up," Stiles says, "don't say anything." 

Derek doesn't, but he kisses Stiles in front of his dad, which is definitely something. 

"That's a very well made cap, Stiles," his dad says, mostly so he has a distraction from all the kissing. "I did not expect you to be so skilled at that." 

"I got a B," Stiles says, looking down at Derek's mittens, which are still bunching the collar of his shirt. "And it wasn't graded on any kind of scale!" 

"Impressive," his dad judges. 

"And I didn't even know cable then," Stiles says, grinning slyly at Derek. 

"You didn't have to do that," Derek says helplessly, and he means it, but Stiles is glad he did it anyway. 

"How come I didn't get mittens?" his dad asks belligerently, and Stiles chokes. 

He looks at Derek with some caution, but Derek is still smiling. "You were offered mittens!" Stiles reminds his dad indignantly. "You were offered these very mittens!" He hastens to reassure Derek, "They look better on you." 

The hat looks good on him too, though Stiles would've expected him to look like a total reject in it, because who wouldn't? He winds the scarf around Derek's neck, and thinks he sees Derek smile behind the obscuring wool. 

"I want mittens," his dad decides obstinately. 

"Yeah," Stiles says. "You'll get them. Am I going to get my fries? Because I want _fries_." 

His dad goes off to check on the turkey and fries and radishes and Brussels sprouts, and Stiles follows him into the kitchen, leaving Derek looking approvingly into the mirror, straightening his hat. 

It has a bobble on top, but Derek doesn't seem to mind. 

Stiles pulls open the microwave and finishes off the drink, dropping in the marshmallows in a manner he deems artistic. He's only made one cup, but he figures Derek won't mind sharing. 

His dad is looking at him out of the corner of his eye, so Stiles asks, "Yeah?" 

"He's okay," his dad says. "Not as awful as I was expecting, I guess. If you care." 

"I do," Stiles says, and shares a smile with his dad before he heads back out. 

"Hey," he says as he reaches Derek, and Derek turns away from admiring his gift in the mirror to grin at Stiles, so Stiles knows this is--something. 

Stiles knows this is something. 

"Hey," Derek says warmly, and automatically takes the cup from Stiles' hand before he looks down at it. The surprise would normally transform his face completely, but he looks so happy already it doesn't make that much difference today. "Hot chocolate?" 

"I know you want it," Stiles says, low and sure and delighted, leaning into Derek. 

"I do," Derek laughs, and when Stiles presses closer to kiss him the chocolate spills all over his mittens, but they're too busy to care. 

End

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